Lines
by ifonlynotnever
Summary: COLLECTION. A selection of not-quite-drabbles inspired by lyrics or quotes. May involve amphetamines, London, potatoes, and Samwise Gamgee. Definitely involves domestic squabbling as only the 221boys can do it.
1. Amped

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>CharactersPairings:** Sherlock, John. Slash goggles?**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen, slice of life, lyric-inspired.**  
>Rating:<strong> G/K.**  
>Word Count:<strong> 316**  
>Summary:<strong> There's no place like London.**  
>Notes:<strong> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Short, but one of my favorites.

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><p>Sherlock breathes in, eyes drifting shut, mouth curving up into a blissed-out smile that makes something in John tighten, makes his tongue dart out and wet his bottom lip in a reflex he can never quite control.<p>

"London," Sherlock says on a breathy exhale, his face still tilted up at the grey sky. "Mmm. Finally."

John snorts, glancing around to see if anyone else is looking at the madman standing stock-still in the middle of the street. "I'm guessing that means you didn't like Kiev, then."

"Ugh. Dull. Horrid. Boring. Never speak of it again." Sherlock takes in another deep breath and opens his eyes. "The air out here is like amphetamines. Have you ever noticed?"

"Like—No?" John's forehead wrinkles. "What are you going on about this time?"

"Amphetamines, John. London air. You've never felt it? You must have, or you'd not have tried to live here on an army pension. Surely you've felt it. It's all over this city." Sherlock's eyes slide closed again. "God, it makes me never want to sleep again."

"That's funny," the doctor says mildly. People are beginning to stare. He nudges Sherlock's immaculately-suited calf with the toe of his trainers. Time to get inside. "You know. Seeing as how you're half asleep right now. In the middle of the street. After—let me guess—three days of living on coffee, adrenaline, and cigarettes. Don't deny it, I can smell them on your coat."

Sherlock smirks, but at least has the grace to look _slightly_ guilty about that last. "Regardless. Amphetamines. I ought to do a study."

John rolls his eyes and shoves his flatmate in the direction of the door to 221-B. "Not now, I hope. Come on, get inside. And welcome home."

Sherlock huffs—but concedes with an, "I _suppose_ it can wait," as he allows John to steer him into the flat and back into their home.

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><p><strong>Lyrical Inspiration:<strong> "_The air out here is like amphetamines."_ (And, paraphrased: _"I never ever wanna sleep again."_) —"Song for Jacob", The Bravery.

Thank you for reading!


	2. Taters

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>CharactersPairings:** John, Sherlock.**  
>Genre:<strong> Humor, crack(ish), quote-inspired.**  
>Rating:<strong> G/K**  
>Word Count:<strong> 317**  
>Summary:<strong> In which John attempts to send Sherlock out on an errand. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.**  
>Notes:<strong> Written for the same kinkmeme prompt as _Amped_. Obviously, I have a thing for making Sherlock and John squabble over domestic stuff. Shut up. They're so married.

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><p>John is at the hob, thinking about making dinner, when he hears Sherlock rattling about in the sitting room. The sound brings a smile to the doctor's lips, because he has had five months of sharing a flat with Sherlock, and by now he can distinguish between the rambunctious "I've got a case!" clattering, the sedate "I'm meeting a contact" thumping, and the suspicious "I don't have anything on, so I'm going out, but I don't want company and I don't want you to send me out on an errand" rummaging—and the sounds drifting into the kitchen right now are most definitely of the third type.<p>

John suppresses the grin in his voice and calmly calls out, "Sherlock?"

The rummaging noises cut off immediately. John bites his lip to stop from laughing.

"Sherlock, I know you can hear me. Be good and pick up some taters for us while you're out, will you?"

Beyond the kitchenette door, the detective swears softly, then pokes his head in.

"Some _what_?" he asks, looking at his flatmate incredulously. "Did you just say _taters_?"

John gives an exasperated sigh. "Po-ta-toes. Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew?"

"Yes, obviously, _potatoes_. What's wrong with the ones in the crisper?"

The doctor's eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

"What's—You're seriously asking me that? Seriously? After you used them in that—battery experiment? The one where you hooked them up to a _severed hand_?"

"I disinfected them afterwards."

John looks at him for a moment, and just sighs.

"There are so many things wrong here, I can't even—Look, Sherlock. Just get the potatoes. I'm making dinner, and—"

"No guarantees," Sherlock replies, already sweeping away.

"No, wait—Sherlock! Get the—Ugh." John looks up at the ceiling and says to no on in particular, "That man. I will throttle him one day, I really will."

He smiles as he says it.

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><p><strong>Quote Inspiration:<strong> Don't you dare tell me you didn't recognize a Lord of the Rings quote. Don't. You. Dare.

Thanks for reading! (Insert biiig hearts here.)


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